thedrifter
08-07-08, 07:08 AM
A lesson without the history book
It was about 3 a.m. Oct. 29, 1969 when they landed at El Toro Marine Corps Air Base.
There was a welcoming crew, if you could call it that. It wasn't the motorcycle escorts and families with posters and hugs that we see today.
“Baby Killer!” was the greeting from the other side of the fence.
Not true - not even an original insult - but he didn't care. For the first and only time in his life, he dropped to his knees and kissed the ground. The landing was one of few in the past year that allowed him to walk off the aircraft, rather than jumping out to incoming fire.
That was a long time ago and that's just one Marine's anecdotes about coming home from Vietnam.
About 15 years ago I read Chicago Tribune columnist Bob Greene's book “Coming Home,” which contained essays from Vietnam vets about their welcome home. My hometown paper ran excerpts from the book and I interviewed local vets about their own experiences.
My hairdresser was a helicopter pilot. He wasn't a good interview. He just wouldn't talk.
I met another ‘Nam vet that I didn't much care for, but he would talk. He tried. Tears streamed down his face a couple of times, and my opinion of him changed.
I learned it was true what they say. The people who saw a lot and did a lot in war just don't talk about it. Who would want to? Especially men who saw action in Vietnam, a war people and men who fought it debate still today.
I learned virtually nothing about Vietnam in school. The textbooks were too old and the sentiment was still too raw about what would be said.
What I've learned about that war has come from interviews with veterans who shared a little - but no where near what really happened to them - in occasional stories during my newspaper career...and by tidbits of details from my husband. I've known him more than 15 years, but I don't know jack about what he actually endured.
He's not unusual. There are a lot of men like him with kids and grandkids in our community.
I'm wondering what my 10-year-old son will learn, if textbooks on Iraq and Afghanistan are in print by the time he finishes school.
I'm not sure what the schools will teach, but Drew did get the opportunity this summer to learn about his dad's war.
We drove to Washington, D.C. to meet up with members of the 3rd Battalion, 26th Marines, reactivated to be among the “first to fight” in Vietnam. It's not a standing division (if I got my terminology right), it's only activated to go to war.
I won't give you a history lesson on Vietnam, but I will tell you about the stories you ought to be looking for among your neighbors who have served.
---
Life goes on and these guys were from all walks of life.
A North Carolina woman drove to the nation's capital to meet her brother, who traveled from Seattle, Wash. She brought her teen-age son, who's thinking about military service. Their mother was a Greek resistance military nurse who met their father, an American G.I., in World War II.
Another woman came to the reunion to meet the man who was with her brother when he died in combat.
This group has been gathering for reunions every two years since the early 1990s. We've only attended two, but we saw a few familiar faces from the last one.
There was the gangly guy with gray hair stringing past his shoulders and Albert Einstein eyebrows, who wore cut-off jeans and flip-flops during most events. An avid reader, he sported a pair of “cheaters” riding low on his nose most of the time. He carried a book about the 3/26 with him, adding autographs from men who served with him to the cover page, when he recognized them.
I met a wiry little guy with a hand-tooled belt bearing the name “Gums,” who told me he got his nickname in a hole at Khe Sahn when a huge rat he called “Charlie” snatched his dentures out of his mouth.
I met a guy from Ohio who has a collection of 50 Vietnam t-shirts and counting. Many were politically incorrect, but entirely funny.
I met more than a few women who broke down in tears as we visited The Wall on the National Mall in Washington, D.C.
---
There weren't many dry eyes in the house at Quantico Marine Base chapel, where we gathered for a memorial service to remember Marines who didn't come back. About 250 people singing The Marine Corps Hymn is a moving experience, but maybe not as moving as “Taps” performed by a Marine in dress blues, who thanked these men for the privilege of playing the trumpet to remember the fallen in that storied bunch of fighters.
We toured Quantico, taking seats in a giant air-conditioned tent used for officer training classes, where Marines detailed the training recruits get today. Quantico trains U.S. Marine officer candidates and international officers, including about 10 Arab candidates this summer. My husband and several others wondered why you need air conditioning if you're training to go to the Middle East.
I never saw so much handshaking and “thank yous” in my life as during that tour. It doesn't make up for “baby killer” insults and hateful looks from years gone by, but it's a start.
Drew took a sip from a fountain at Taylor Hall, a dorm named for a staff sergeant in Mike Company 3/26 who lost his life in Vietnam.
A well-meaning Texan along on the tour warned him, “Boy, that's Marine water you're drinkin'. That'll make ya mean!”
The warning came back to haunt us later that evening when, packed in like sardines to watch the 8th & I Barracks Evening Parade, Drew began to squirm. After sitting 90 minutes waiting to see the silent drill team at the nation's oldest operating Marine Barracks perform precision drills with bayonets mounted in the moonlight, he was squirmy and rather loud about the inconvenience.
I told him he was misbehaving.
I should have seen it coming. “I can't help it, Mom, it's that Marine water!”
--
Drew behaved well, but we took no chances on most group outings. We sat at the back of the tour bus for some breathing room.
Somme Tolk, a former Marine from Whittier, Calif., walked to the back of the bus to talk to Drew. I don't know him, but what he said caused me to take note of his name: “Drew, did you know that your dad fought in some of the most ferocious fighting in history?”
That question got my son's attention, but my husband reminded Tolk that Normandy was pretty bloody.
Still, Tolk insisted that Drew know this.
The conversations generally ran on lighter themes, looking back with nostalgia on basic training days, when my husband loved obstacle course training because he was good at it and scored high, getting free time while others got unwanted attention.
On the final day of our reunion, we toured the new Marine Corps Museum south of Washington, D.C. I walked into a Vietnam era exhibit that included a helicopter with sound effects of incoming fire. It's a museum that presents the Marines not just in parade or training, but in the thing they are trained to do - fight.
My husband and Drew stood in the gallery, gazing up at inscriptions and aircraft suspended from the ceiling. A docent approached, answered some questions, and made a special point of telling Drew that he volunteers at the museum because of men like Drew's dad, who are extremely special people.
My husband walked the pathway in the museum's Semper Fi Park, which is lined with bricks remembering fallen Marines of all eras. He was searching for a brick he had purchased for a young man who died beside him at a rice paddy dike on kill team watch March 18, 1969. The brick wasn't there yet. The museum's got a waiting list of 18,000 more bricks to lay along the pathway.
The museum staff transformed the gallery into a banquet hall that evening. Before the dinner, retired Gen. Matt Caulfield praised the men of 3/26 for their valor as the group dedicated a monument that will stand in Semper Fi Park.
--
I gotta say, my son was the perfect gentleman, but by the time the banquet started, we were searching for out-of-the-way seats to give him room to roam. We chose a table at the back of the gallery, near the steps that led to mezzanine exhibits.
Our peace and quiet was short-lived. A party of seven asked permission to “crash” our table.
His name tag said “Matt,” but the inquirer was the retired general. We welcomed them to the table, and Caulfield took a look at Drew, pointed to an older fellow with the name “Carl” on his tag and told me “Your son will remember this night. He can tell people he had dinner with the Commandant.”
I don't know that my son cared that much. I think the things other men told him about his dad will stick longer.
But my husband enjoyed talking “garden” with the general's wife, and I learned the retired Commandant Gen. Carl E. Mundy is thinking about selling a house and taking off on an RV excursion just like my great-uncle Ken did. I told him he'd love it.
The general's wife asked my husband whether he grows any of those sweet summer melons. He laughed and told her that we live in melon country, there's no need to try to raise them in our garden.
“Gums” traveled over to our table, plunked down a challenge coin and collected Mundy's coin from his pocket.
A few minutes later, it was the retired Commandant's turn to speak to the gallery.
The trip ended with likely the loudest gathering ever witnessed in the main lobby of our hotel. We packed up our car and met a Marine from New Jersey, a friend of a friend of Joe Namath.
Two years from now, this group will do it again, and some will come and some won't. But e-mails will fly, tagged at the end “Semper Fi.”
The trip prompted my husband to make a couple of calls to two men he remembered well. One's doing well, the other not so well.
Times change.
A couple weeks later, we're at an amusement park. In a line to buy an ice cream cone, my husband's wearing a ball cap with the 3/26 emblem on the front.
Out of the blue, a stranger greets him.
But this time, it's “Semper Fi.”
Ellie
It was about 3 a.m. Oct. 29, 1969 when they landed at El Toro Marine Corps Air Base.
There was a welcoming crew, if you could call it that. It wasn't the motorcycle escorts and families with posters and hugs that we see today.
“Baby Killer!” was the greeting from the other side of the fence.
Not true - not even an original insult - but he didn't care. For the first and only time in his life, he dropped to his knees and kissed the ground. The landing was one of few in the past year that allowed him to walk off the aircraft, rather than jumping out to incoming fire.
That was a long time ago and that's just one Marine's anecdotes about coming home from Vietnam.
About 15 years ago I read Chicago Tribune columnist Bob Greene's book “Coming Home,” which contained essays from Vietnam vets about their welcome home. My hometown paper ran excerpts from the book and I interviewed local vets about their own experiences.
My hairdresser was a helicopter pilot. He wasn't a good interview. He just wouldn't talk.
I met another ‘Nam vet that I didn't much care for, but he would talk. He tried. Tears streamed down his face a couple of times, and my opinion of him changed.
I learned it was true what they say. The people who saw a lot and did a lot in war just don't talk about it. Who would want to? Especially men who saw action in Vietnam, a war people and men who fought it debate still today.
I learned virtually nothing about Vietnam in school. The textbooks were too old and the sentiment was still too raw about what would be said.
What I've learned about that war has come from interviews with veterans who shared a little - but no where near what really happened to them - in occasional stories during my newspaper career...and by tidbits of details from my husband. I've known him more than 15 years, but I don't know jack about what he actually endured.
He's not unusual. There are a lot of men like him with kids and grandkids in our community.
I'm wondering what my 10-year-old son will learn, if textbooks on Iraq and Afghanistan are in print by the time he finishes school.
I'm not sure what the schools will teach, but Drew did get the opportunity this summer to learn about his dad's war.
We drove to Washington, D.C. to meet up with members of the 3rd Battalion, 26th Marines, reactivated to be among the “first to fight” in Vietnam. It's not a standing division (if I got my terminology right), it's only activated to go to war.
I won't give you a history lesson on Vietnam, but I will tell you about the stories you ought to be looking for among your neighbors who have served.
---
Life goes on and these guys were from all walks of life.
A North Carolina woman drove to the nation's capital to meet her brother, who traveled from Seattle, Wash. She brought her teen-age son, who's thinking about military service. Their mother was a Greek resistance military nurse who met their father, an American G.I., in World War II.
Another woman came to the reunion to meet the man who was with her brother when he died in combat.
This group has been gathering for reunions every two years since the early 1990s. We've only attended two, but we saw a few familiar faces from the last one.
There was the gangly guy with gray hair stringing past his shoulders and Albert Einstein eyebrows, who wore cut-off jeans and flip-flops during most events. An avid reader, he sported a pair of “cheaters” riding low on his nose most of the time. He carried a book about the 3/26 with him, adding autographs from men who served with him to the cover page, when he recognized them.
I met a wiry little guy with a hand-tooled belt bearing the name “Gums,” who told me he got his nickname in a hole at Khe Sahn when a huge rat he called “Charlie” snatched his dentures out of his mouth.
I met a guy from Ohio who has a collection of 50 Vietnam t-shirts and counting. Many were politically incorrect, but entirely funny.
I met more than a few women who broke down in tears as we visited The Wall on the National Mall in Washington, D.C.
---
There weren't many dry eyes in the house at Quantico Marine Base chapel, where we gathered for a memorial service to remember Marines who didn't come back. About 250 people singing The Marine Corps Hymn is a moving experience, but maybe not as moving as “Taps” performed by a Marine in dress blues, who thanked these men for the privilege of playing the trumpet to remember the fallen in that storied bunch of fighters.
We toured Quantico, taking seats in a giant air-conditioned tent used for officer training classes, where Marines detailed the training recruits get today. Quantico trains U.S. Marine officer candidates and international officers, including about 10 Arab candidates this summer. My husband and several others wondered why you need air conditioning if you're training to go to the Middle East.
I never saw so much handshaking and “thank yous” in my life as during that tour. It doesn't make up for “baby killer” insults and hateful looks from years gone by, but it's a start.
Drew took a sip from a fountain at Taylor Hall, a dorm named for a staff sergeant in Mike Company 3/26 who lost his life in Vietnam.
A well-meaning Texan along on the tour warned him, “Boy, that's Marine water you're drinkin'. That'll make ya mean!”
The warning came back to haunt us later that evening when, packed in like sardines to watch the 8th & I Barracks Evening Parade, Drew began to squirm. After sitting 90 minutes waiting to see the silent drill team at the nation's oldest operating Marine Barracks perform precision drills with bayonets mounted in the moonlight, he was squirmy and rather loud about the inconvenience.
I told him he was misbehaving.
I should have seen it coming. “I can't help it, Mom, it's that Marine water!”
--
Drew behaved well, but we took no chances on most group outings. We sat at the back of the tour bus for some breathing room.
Somme Tolk, a former Marine from Whittier, Calif., walked to the back of the bus to talk to Drew. I don't know him, but what he said caused me to take note of his name: “Drew, did you know that your dad fought in some of the most ferocious fighting in history?”
That question got my son's attention, but my husband reminded Tolk that Normandy was pretty bloody.
Still, Tolk insisted that Drew know this.
The conversations generally ran on lighter themes, looking back with nostalgia on basic training days, when my husband loved obstacle course training because he was good at it and scored high, getting free time while others got unwanted attention.
On the final day of our reunion, we toured the new Marine Corps Museum south of Washington, D.C. I walked into a Vietnam era exhibit that included a helicopter with sound effects of incoming fire. It's a museum that presents the Marines not just in parade or training, but in the thing they are trained to do - fight.
My husband and Drew stood in the gallery, gazing up at inscriptions and aircraft suspended from the ceiling. A docent approached, answered some questions, and made a special point of telling Drew that he volunteers at the museum because of men like Drew's dad, who are extremely special people.
My husband walked the pathway in the museum's Semper Fi Park, which is lined with bricks remembering fallen Marines of all eras. He was searching for a brick he had purchased for a young man who died beside him at a rice paddy dike on kill team watch March 18, 1969. The brick wasn't there yet. The museum's got a waiting list of 18,000 more bricks to lay along the pathway.
The museum staff transformed the gallery into a banquet hall that evening. Before the dinner, retired Gen. Matt Caulfield praised the men of 3/26 for their valor as the group dedicated a monument that will stand in Semper Fi Park.
--
I gotta say, my son was the perfect gentleman, but by the time the banquet started, we were searching for out-of-the-way seats to give him room to roam. We chose a table at the back of the gallery, near the steps that led to mezzanine exhibits.
Our peace and quiet was short-lived. A party of seven asked permission to “crash” our table.
His name tag said “Matt,” but the inquirer was the retired general. We welcomed them to the table, and Caulfield took a look at Drew, pointed to an older fellow with the name “Carl” on his tag and told me “Your son will remember this night. He can tell people he had dinner with the Commandant.”
I don't know that my son cared that much. I think the things other men told him about his dad will stick longer.
But my husband enjoyed talking “garden” with the general's wife, and I learned the retired Commandant Gen. Carl E. Mundy is thinking about selling a house and taking off on an RV excursion just like my great-uncle Ken did. I told him he'd love it.
The general's wife asked my husband whether he grows any of those sweet summer melons. He laughed and told her that we live in melon country, there's no need to try to raise them in our garden.
“Gums” traveled over to our table, plunked down a challenge coin and collected Mundy's coin from his pocket.
A few minutes later, it was the retired Commandant's turn to speak to the gallery.
The trip ended with likely the loudest gathering ever witnessed in the main lobby of our hotel. We packed up our car and met a Marine from New Jersey, a friend of a friend of Joe Namath.
Two years from now, this group will do it again, and some will come and some won't. But e-mails will fly, tagged at the end “Semper Fi.”
The trip prompted my husband to make a couple of calls to two men he remembered well. One's doing well, the other not so well.
Times change.
A couple weeks later, we're at an amusement park. In a line to buy an ice cream cone, my husband's wearing a ball cap with the 3/26 emblem on the front.
Out of the blue, a stranger greets him.
But this time, it's “Semper Fi.”
Ellie